Almost Eden Read online

  ‘It’ll be ready for you, whether I’m down here or not. My odd-job man has a key.’

  ‘Can I bring a girl?’

  ‘You … have a steady girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, so you might meet her when we come down.’

  ‘You’re both welcome, you know that.’

  I made ready for bed with many thoughts rushing around my mind, and the more I thought about the house the more I liked the place – and the idea of doing it up. Ideas were forming, but for the most part those ideas were being handed to me by Robby. I had always loved gardening and decorating, and the house and grounds could keep me busy for a long time.

  The idea of Ben and his young lady staying with me for a few days in the summer secretly delighted me; Wendy would be jealous, and feeling left out. After all, the kids normally stayed with her at our old home when they were not in university. And if Sophie joined her brother down here, then … well, I’d have my kids with me, and Wendy would be jealous as hell. Still, that was not the aim, I told myself, but I did so with a wry smile.

  The following afternoon the items we had purchased from the farm turned up, and were soon offloaded by strong young farm hands. We put the tools inside the house, stacked the fencing against a wall, then stood inspecting the chicken coop. Erected, it was eight feet square and six feet tall, a third of it dedicated to the wooden house.

  ‘I’ll make a concrete base,’ Robby suggested.

  ‘Concrete?’

  ‘Has to have a base so that no fox can dig under. So I’ll make a base, put the coop on top, six inches of soil. Be right cosy then.’

  ‘And how many hens will this take?’

  ‘Twelve I reckon.’

  ‘And … how many eggs is that?’

  ‘Bout dozen a day if all goes well.’

  I was surprised, but I was a dumb city dweller. ‘They each lay … one egg a day?’

  ‘Aye, and if you as a good breed, they’s big brown eggs and better, but not one a day.’

  ‘A dozen eggs a day would be … more than enough for us,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You’s can sell ‘em local, sell ‘em cheap. Bakery will ‘av some.’

  ‘So where do we get the chickens?’ I naively asked.

  ‘You’s can start with chicks, which is best, or young’uns. Can’t put old hens together, they fight – and eat each others eggs sometimes. Chicks get used to the place, as young’uns. I’ll get some.’

  ‘And the feed?’

  ‘Pellets, if you want good eggs, but that’s expensive, so seeds will do. Summer you can collect seeds from round about. Need a water feed, like a hamster in a cage, and if you want a good tally of eggs – a night light.’

  ‘Night light?’ I puzzled. ‘Do they … get scared at night?’

  Robby laughed. ‘No, light comes on in winter at 6am, off at 8pm, and the chickens thinks it’s summer like. More eggs. Over in commune they have the black glass making the light come on and off.’

  ‘Ah, solar panels feeding the battery, and the battery keeps the light on at certain times.’ Robby nodded. I added, ‘Well, go ahead and get some suitable birds, and feed or seeds, whatever you need, but … if they produce eggs then you can do what you like with them for now.’ I faced him. ‘And Robby, if I do sell, then … then it won’t be for at least six months. I’m going to visit during the summer when I can.’

  ‘Leave it to me, I knows what to do,’ Robby assured me. ‘Won’t recognise the old place when you come down next.’

  ‘Then I guess you must be a very fast worker, because I might come back down next weekend!’

  ‘Ah, well … I ain’t that fast, Boss.’ We laughed.

  ‘Take your time,’ I encouraged. ‘Now I have to set-off, a long drive ahead of me.’

  ‘Have a coffee afore yee go,’ Robby insisted, and he got the kettle on.

  With one last look at the sandy beach, my sandy beach, I waved goodbye to Robby and set off, soon on the A38 and heading east, not noticing the car following me.

  I got back at 9pm, a hell of a drive, and I felt faint. A quick shower, a bite to eat, and I settled in bed, asleep before my head had even hit the pillow. And I had forgotten about the damn alarm clock; it was still set for 5am.

  The big smoke

  Second day back in work, and with people still commenting on my tanned face, I spoke to human resources, to my manager, and they both in turn agreed that I could have the following week off – and that the accounts department would not collapse without my presence.

  I worked hard that week to clear the decks, and those decks were never that full anyway. On the Friday afternoon I left a list with my manager, cases pending, and I informed him that I had made good progress ahead of my pending absence.

  ‘Seems to be a skip in your step these days,’ he noted. And he waited, making me wonder what was on his mind. We had never been very friendly with each other over the years, but he respected my work ethic – and my talent for all things numerical.

  ‘The … place I inherited down in Devon, I … like doing it up.’

  ‘That’s where you’re headed?’

  ‘Yes, a week of fixing chicken coops, painting walls and … fishing.’

  He eased forwards and interlaced his fingers. ‘Roger, if you had plans to leave us, you’d let us know first, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I have no plans on leaving, it’s a weekend retreat,’ I quickly got out. ‘After I’ve done it up I’ll sell it.’

  He eased back. ‘And then you’d be sat on a large pile of cash, which … may tempt you away from The Big Smoke to somewhere nicer, like … Bali.’

  I was suddenly concerned, concerned that I may lose my job, even though that was the opposite of what he was hinting at. He … was concerned about losing me. ‘I … have no plans on giving up my job.’

  ‘Still, you would let me know well in advance.’

  ‘Well in advance, yes.’

  His chest heaved a big sigh. ‘I could wangle you a six percent rise, Roger.’ He stared up, and waited.

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s good to know, but … as I said, I intend staying.’

  As I left work, I did intend staying with the firm, and had no particular intention of joining Robby in Devon - eating road kill. The estate was nice, at least in the summer time, but as Robby had advised me … it was a cold lonely place in the winter.

  I packed my bags that Friday night, ignored calls from Derrick to accompany him to an Over Fifty’s Night, and got to bed early. At 5am I was up, excited, and soon on the road. I was also nervous, because I had twenty thousand pounds in cash in the car, cash that could not be wiped out by a sudden crash of the banking system. Such a crash was a remote possibility, but still … I had the cash with me, testament to what little faith I had left in the electronic banking system of the modern world.

  A long five hours later I glimpsed the ocean, and I soon eased to a halt, my car packed with goodies. Robby stepped out from the house, a glance up at the sky as he stepped towards the car. It was a sunny day, but a nasty black cloud threatened a hell of a downpour sometime today.

  ‘Right, Boss?’ he offered in his thick accent as I neared.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I keenly enquired, shaking his giant paw of a hand.

  ‘Made good progress, aye.’ He pointed at the house. Half of the previously off-white walls were now grey, their surface layers having been scraped away, one side already having been scraped and painted - and now gleaming and bright. ‘Had some lads round from the commune, made good progress, aye.’

  I stood with my hands on my hips, squinting up at the walls. ‘What do they cost – per day’s labour?’

  ‘Usual rate … is fifty a day.’ As he said it, he sounded apologetic.

  ‘That would get you a plumber for fifteen minutes in London – if you were lucky!’

  ‘Come see the hens.’

  He led me around the house and up a worn stone path, and there sat the coop, in plain view of the back bedrooms and at the same height - and damned close. The edges of the concrete base were visible, soil now inside the coop, three chickens now pecking at that soil.

  ‘Ten in there, not young … but not old neither,’ he informed me. ‘I found ‘em all together, so bought ‘em all together – no fighting.’

  ‘Eggs?’

  ‘They’s still a bit young, just the two of ‘em laying, few eggs a week.’

  ‘And the nightlight thing?’ I asked as I peered down at my brown chickens, my chickens peering up at me.

  ‘Won’t be a need till October time,’ Robby said with a shrug.

  I noticed another patch of fresh concrete, and pointed towards it. ‘More chickens?’

  ‘Or anything else. Need them near the house, or foxes will have ‘em away – and people will have ‘em away. If they’s up the top field you’ll lose ‘em quick enough.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ I commended.

  ‘Come, ‘av a look.’ He led me down the other side of the house and showed off his handiwork, a garden wall with all the cracks now displaying fresh concrete. Leading me towards the water, I could see that rocks had been piled up as I had requested, something of a rock groyne now stretching out about twelve feet into the mud.

  He began, pointing, ‘Tell us how far, and then we’ll put in gravel between the rocks, then concrete on top.’

  ‘Well, as far as we can go before the council get worried; someone on a boat might notice it, and report it. But … further than that I think. Be able to fish off it then at high tide, and when the tide is coming in, without getting mud on your feet. Anyway, I have some goodies in the car, come give me a hand.’

  Opening the back of the car, I handed him a large cardboard box. ‘Kitchen,’ I told him, and off he strode. I grabbed a second box, dumping it down near the stairs as he appeared from the kitchen. ‘Bedding,’ I told him.

  Back at the car, I lifted out a plastic bag and pulled out a green fleece, size XXXL. ‘Take that jumper off.’

  With a puzzled expression, which was not far away from his normal expression, he did as asked, soon zipping up the fleece. ‘Be warm in winter, this.’

  ‘It’s yours, a gift.’ I put my head back into the car, and lifted out a small wind generator, just twelve inches tall, the wires dangling. ‘Stick this on the roof of the cottage, wires down to the bulb, and you have a light – no charge from the electricity company.’

  ‘Very good of you, Boss,’ he offered, spinning the fans.

  I pulled out another fleece - still in its plastic bag, this one blue but the same size. ‘Another fleece, for when that one wears out.’

  He managed to look surprised, pleased, and embarrassed – all at the same time.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I’m sure you’re working hard for me and earning your keep.’

  ‘Been working right hard an all,’ he assured me, still looking embarrassed with the gifts.

  My hard working man-Friday helped me carry four plastic buckets and two plastic bowls to the house, a bag of small trowels for gardening, a rake and a long hosepipe. All would find a use at some point soon. A bag of soaps and shampoos were destined for the house bathrooms, along with a good supply of toilet paper. The last cardboard box contained two hundred tea bags, coffee and sugar, mugs, spoons and coasters, tinned soup, bread and butter. We would be cosy enough.

  The new kettle was soon full and boiling, the new mugs being tested with the tea bags.

  Sat opposite me, Robby began, ‘When Mrs Hobson died, I fetched the doctor, and the police had a nose around, and Mister Pugh the solicitor said to clean up the place.’

  ‘Old Mister Pugh, or the younger?’ I idly enquired.

  ‘The old guy.’ He sipped his tea. ‘So I removed the bedding where she died, the mattress an all – burnt ‘em. Emptied the bins, and burnt her clothes, what she had. Most was old.’

  I found myself nodding as I sipped my tea.

  He continued, ‘I cleaned the place, got rid of what food there was left yer, and … then I waited. She had a stack of newspapers as high as the roof, so I burnt ‘em. Damp, many of ‘em was.’

  ‘Old people do tend to hoard things, but when I visited four years ago she seemed OK.’

  ‘She never lost her mind, still sharp at the end.’

  ‘Did she ever talk about me?’

  ‘Talked about family visiting now and then, and often spoke like 1970 was just yesterday. Sometimes said: the kids would be down in the summer, have to get the old place ready.’

  ‘It’s been a while … since anyone called me a kid,’ I pointed out with a smile. ‘Do you … know why she favoured me?’

  ‘Figured I’d ask you that when I met you.’

  ‘Funny I never met you before.’

  ‘I seen you drive past, two or three times I reckon. People don’t see the cottage, but from the cottage you’s see the road. When visitors come, I stayed up the cottage or worked up the farms.’

  ‘I might have seen you in passing, and thought you a local farmer.’

  ‘I reckon we passed a few times, aye. But I didn’t rightly know your face when you came down t’other week.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got the whole of next week off, so we’ll make some good progress.’

  ‘You’ll stay yer?’

  ‘Yes, tonight will be my first night as the new owner. But I must admit, it somehow feels … older than I remember from my last visit. I stayed in the front bedroom on the right.’

  ‘At’s best room, always for guests she said. She aired it good afore anyone came.’

  ‘I have fresh bedding, towels, and I’ll go shopping for whatever else needs buying; I brought some money. Some of that money I’ll lodge with the solicitor, some I’ll use to buy things next week.’

  ‘Had a think about the pipe, and the water wheel thingy, and I reckon the cellar be flooded.’

  ‘There’s a cellar here?’ I puzzled, my brow knitting.

  ‘Under the stairs, manhole cover ‘n stuff. Ain’t no one been down there as long as I’ve known.’

  ‘Well, we’d better have a look later.’

  ‘It’s where the water came in, some pipes there I reckon, ‘cause the pipe in the drain outside goes that way.’

  Opening the door under the stairs revealed numerous dated wooden boxes, old newspapers, and a god awful smell.

  ‘Damp,’ Robby offered. That was something of an understatement.

  We placed the newspapers in plastic bags, ready for the bin, and as Robby eased out the wooden boxes I opened each in turn.

  For the most part, the boxes contained old crockery shrouded in damp newspapers from the 1960s. One contained a set of silver spoons, one offered up two silver teapots side by side, seemingly little here of any value or of any use. With rotten wooden table mats removed the hatch was finally revealed, and it appeared as if no one had opened it since the 1960s - or earlier.

  Robby fetched a screwdriver, and scraped accumulated dirt from the outline of the hatch, cleaning out the ring-pull that lifted the hatch. Wedging the screwdriver in deep, Robby levered the hatch as I tugged on the dated iron ring-pull. A terrible smell burst forth as soon as the hatch opened an inch, even Robby recoiling from it, a cloud of delicate silver cobwebs dancing as if someone unseen in the cellar was blowing them.

  Considering our options, we opened both the front and back doors, a slight breeze created, and tried again, this time leaving the hatch upright after it had issued a loud squeak of complaint. I had fetched my torch from the car and now shone a beam into the gloom. Steps could be made out, stone steps descending, then just black water about three feet down.

  ‘Flooded, aye,’ Robby said. ‘Happen that hose will do.’

  ‘To pump it out?’ I queried with a frown.

  ‘Siphon it out.’

  Puzzled, I fetched the long hose as Robby fetched a plastic funnel.

  ‘Reel it out, all the way down the mud out front, as far as she goes,’ Robby encouraged me.

  Perplexed, yet confident of Robby’s abilities with such things, I did as asked, returning with mud on my shoes, the tide now out. Robby had a bucket of water ready, as well as a dated metal watering can.

  ‘Go back down, and hold the end up high, like by your head, and walk back some to path. When you hear the water, shake hose, put it down by your knees, and if it’s flowing good then tie it in a strong knot to stop it, and come back up.’

  I duly waited in the mud and sand, feeling at bit silly as I held the hose – at least there was no one around, a gurgling sound soon emanating from the end of the hose. I tapped it and shook it, as asked, and then lowered it. A steady flow burst out, so I quickly raised the end again to shoulder height, and tied off a large looping knot, getting wet as I did so. Having pulled the knot tight the leakage was minimal, and I rushed back up to the house.

  ‘OK,’ I shouted as I entered. ‘I tied it off.’

  Robby was holding his end of the hose at shoulder height, the funnel fitted, and he now poured additional water in till it backed up. Removing the funnel, he put a thumb over end of the hose and knelt, soon lying down and reaching into the cellar. He fed in a few feet of hose first, placed his hand under the water, and let go. Carefully observing the water’s black surface, he said, ‘No bubbles. Good.’

  Clambering back up to his feet, and now quiet grubby, he led me down at a brisk pace, and undid my knot. Water flowed steadily, if not briskly.

  I said, smiling, ‘Siphon works because of a difference in height, no air in the hose.’

  He nodded, black water now surging from the hose. ‘Be a few hours at least, quite a few. Have to make sure the other end stays low.’

  We washed our hands before carrying Robby’s gifts up to the cottage, which didn’t smell a hell of a lot better than the cellar. He keenly fixed the windmill to his roof, fed the wires through a window, and connected the small bulb into its base.

  ‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ he let out, the bulb glowing in his hand.

  ‘Not much wind today either,’ I keenly noted. ‘Be brighter in a stiff breeze. When I buy a bigger one it’ll power the house, and one for here will keep you warm of an evening.’